Acceptance
by manyissues101
Summary: Acceptance is a funny word... My name is Angel Dumott Schunard. And I'm scared. -Angelcentric-


My name is Angel Dumott Schunard.

And I'm scared.

It's amazing how unfamiliar a place can be even when you've spent every waking moment of the last month there. It's so strange that the bed, the air, the smell is still alien and terrifying. Maybe its because I never really wanted it to be familiar, I've never been able to accept it. Either way, it still scares me every time I inhale or open my eyes.

He's so beautiful…the way he smiles, beaming at me, when I wake from a nap or those few occasions that I'm awake to see him arrive in the morning. That smile, the one that makes his whole face light up, warms the room. I pay careful attention to the way his cheeks rise up to meet his brown eyes, which dance around with such beautiful, charming movements. His whole face pulls back and up a bit as it grins at me, and I study it because I never, ever want to forget that face.

And, really, that's one of the only things I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of forgetting that smile, forgetting the warmth in it. I'm afraid that he'll never smile again, and that I'll be the cause of it. I'm afraid of how he'll act once I'm gone. I'm not afraid of dying; only leaving him.

Yes, I am dying. I may be lacking a real, formal education, but I never pegged myself as stupid. I have AIDS—it's a death sentence. When you're diagnosed there's nothing you can do. It's not like you can really fight it. All you can do is accept it. I have accepted it.

Acceptance is a funny word. Can you ever actually achieve it? All of this swirls in my mind as I lie pressed against those stiff white sheets with tube sticking out of my body and annoying beeps going off beside me. I mull over the meaning of acceptance. To accept. To believe, acknowledge, to understand. Is any of that really possible?

Can someone actually believe in death? I know that I'm still scared out of my mind. As I said before though—its not that I'm scared of dying. I'm just scared of not being here. Can you still believe when you're wishing for another breath every time you take one? Is it really acceptance when you cry every time you hear tale of another person who died of AIDS?

I've acknowledged it. I guess that acknowledge is the best synonym for accept. I've come to terms with my death, and realize that it's going to come. But that still leave the question of afterwards unanswered. I've acknowledged that I'm going to die, but I don't think that having to leave Thomas has it me yet. I've acknowledged everything to a certain point.

Understanding is something that I haven't reached. I thought I understood death until I started to experience it. It's one of those things that you can't understand, like true love or why anyone would wear white after Labor Day. Life's unanswered mysteries, tales of the abyss, stories unknown. Death is unknown, even though I claim to understand its effects. But can our brains really wrap around the world without us? Can we ever really see beyond ourselves? I don't think so—we don't posses that type of understanding.

So maybe I don't accept any of this. I'd like to pretend that I do—to give those around me a little comfort. Actually, I've been doing more pretending than I have in a long while. I'm pretending that I don't see Maureen and Joanne growing farther apart, I'm pretending that I don't see the peeks that Roger and Mimi take at each other when the other isn't looking. I'm pretending that I don't see Mark retreat into that camera—his shell, his armor, so that he doesn't have to feel anything. I'm pretending that I don't see Collins cry. I'm pretending not to know that I've accepted the fact that all of this will far apart when I'm not around to see it anymore.

There's that word again. Acceptance. It haunts me. It follows my thoughts around, burrows itself inside my ears so that I hear nothing else. It clogs my throat so that I can't scream in fear or frustration. Until I accept it, none of this is real…and that's the only hope that I'm living on these days…

These days were the worst kind. The kind where my eyes would barely open, my whole body began to burn, and yet I was aware of everything. It was a slow, painful torture, hearing him sobbing and feeling him against me and being able to nothing about it. I couldn't even cry—my body had been drained of fluid and so the fire in my blood still raged on.

There were days where the weight of two bodies could be felt on the bed, and I could pick out Collins' booming voice and Mimi's increasingly weak one. I loved her for caring about me, but I wanted to scream and tell her to go talk to Roger instead of wasting her time on me. I wanted to tell her to accept the fact that I was dying instead of trying to stop it. But how could she accept it when I hadn't?

I was afraid of not being able to accept my death.

I was afraid of being scared as I died, of fading away without a shred of dignity.

Today I've asked the nurses to bring me a pen and some paper. They nicely obliged, being the good people they are. Collins hasn't shown up yet—its too early for him to come in. I'm not going to waste my time without him though—there are some times I'm better left to myself.

I don't want forget about his smile or how much people love me. I don't want to play the part of the unafraid victim. So I'm going to sit here and write to remind myself of all I stand to lose, and hope that it might help me to fight for a just a few more breaths to take in that gorgeous smile.

This is what I'll miss The way his smile touches his eyes 

_How warm his lips feel when it snows_

_Sitting with Mimi, painting our fingernails_

All of my friends around me, enjoying life 

_The feeling of letting myself escape in the music_

_His skin against mine_

_Dreaming_

_The sound of ecstasy in his voice when he tells me he loves me, like all of the joy in the world was captured for me in his laughter._

_Their smiles…_

_I have to go now. It's time for them to let the visitors in and I'm sure that Collins is waiting. I don't want him to see this._

_Yes, I'll miss these things._

_I'll miss all these things._

_And so much more…_

_My name is Angel Dumott Schunard._

_And I'm scared._

0FIN0

The Pact is amazing.

I do not own RENT nor do I own anything I got from The Pact.

RENTRENTRENTReviewRENTRENTRENT.

Subliminal messages are amazing.


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